


Drowning in ice.

by StixandManny



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst/Hurt, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, Minor Character Death, Somewhat Hopeful Ending, drowning? Sort of, not really any comfort, probably non-human Jaskier, strongly implied rape/non-con, this whole thing is wierd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StixandManny/pseuds/StixandManny
Summary: Something changed on that mountain, something deep inside of Jaskier shattered and broke or maybe it just grew. After all it had always been there, an icy fragment right at his very core, a chill he could never truly shake.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Drowning in ice.

**Author's Note:**

> Been bitchslapped by some serious writters block of late so I decided to post this random little ficlet in the hope it'll incite future inspiration.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Something changed on that mountain, something deep inside of Jaskier shattered and broke or maybe it just grew. After all it had always been there, an icy fragment right at his very core, a chill he could never truly shake. Then Geralt had lashed out at him growling out those cruel words in heat and anger, but the heat behind the words didn't reach him. Instead they hit cold and hard, burrowing deep like frozen splinters, slowly sapping away the warmth he'd managed to gather over the years.

It was fast and gradual all at once, as he made his way back down the mountain alone, the early autumn breeze felt just that little cooler than it had going up. He found himself sitting just a little closer to the fire with each passing night, trying to draw in warmth from the flames. Added layers piled upon him at night that never seemed enough as the cold continued to spread throughout his veins like the coming winter. He spent more time in towns and cities and less camping outside, hoping to thaw inside protected from the elements and surrounded by crowds of warm bodies.

Still the warmth flees him.

He's always been somewhat amiss, wrong, but never quite like this.

Is he cursed?

He is so cold now, always so cold. Too cold. He tries to fill the hollow frozen void the witcher left by drowning himself in spiced ale and sleeping with women and men alike. He takes any who'll have him, pays if needs be or simply let's them take as they please, feelings and attraction be damned. It's not about affection or a desire to feel loved and wanted, it's desperation. He'll start fights, seek out trouble, seeking bruises and hits, anything, whatever it takes, for just a moment of skin on skin contact. Seeking desperately for warmth no matter how fleeting or what pain it brings. Anything just to chase away the unbearably insistent chill that flows through his body, his limbs, his veins, burrowing to settle deep into the marrow of his bones, his very core.

It's not enough. It's never enough.

And when he can't find any warmth, the times when the cold freezes his entire being and seizes his heart and lungs. He drowns and chokes, sputtering and coughing up lungfuls of icy water, until his eyes water and he's left gasping for breath. He doesn't understand, it doesn't make sense. And then one night in the heart of winter he kills two men, he doesn't mean to and he doesn't know how, but he knows he did it. He knows it was him because they were fine, fit and strong and alive as they dragged him from the empty frozen street into the stable and held him down. He doesn't struggle, he doesn't fight, he just lets them have their way, because they are warm and he is so, so, very cold. But the warmth doesn't last, it never does and the men slow and he doesn't want them too he wants them to keep going even though it hurts. He wants the warmth, he needs it but the cold is all consuming, and then they stop.

They don't finish and leave they just stop, and one is still on top of him and the other still holds him down, but they're no longer moving, no longer warm. They're both as cold as he is, skin pale and ashen, and lips and fingers blue and he screams as he kicks the cold dead men off of him, but his lungs feel like they're filling with water. He scrabbles to his feet pulling up his pants, grabbed his lute and runs, and runs, and runs, until he is far from the town, until his legs ache and he's choking on icy water. He collapses to his knees in the snow, choking and gaging as water floods his lungs and spills out his nose and mouth. He forgot his boots and coat, left them in the stable, and his chemise and woollen-silk blend doublet and trousers do nothing to protect from the frozen winter night but it doesn't matter because his body is already as cold as the snow beneath him.

The water burns as he hacks up mouthful after mouthful, clawing desperately at his chest. He can't breathe, he can't breathe and tears leak from his eyes as he collapses weak and tired and frightened in the snow. Choking and gasping as he fails to draw breath, drowning in the endless flow of water spilling from his airways. Snow falls around him as he lay drowning in the middle of the woods, the ice in his veins numbing him to everything but the damn cold radiating from his centre. The world around him a silent endless blanket of falling white and darkness, his own choked gurgling the only sound finding his ears.

Falling snow? Or was it rising bubbles in a dark frozen lake... that would certainly explain the water clogging his lungs.

He feels like he is floating... or maybe sinking.

And then something brushes over his hand, which is no longer at his chest, when had that happened? Soft and thick and most importantly warm. Just a fleeting brush that vanished nearly as swiftly as it came and he reaches out blindly, frantic to find it again. Then there is heat on his shoulder as his fingers find something strong and warm to latch onto, an arm he realises, as he clings frantically to the warmth beneath his fingers hoping to draw some for himself.

Somehow managing to plead out a weak spluttered, "P-please..."


End file.
